


Game Night

by i_claudia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-13
Updated: 2009-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 08:00:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Jesus, Arthur,” Merlin spits out, wiping his mouth. “If kissing me is that horrible, you could have had something else as your victory prize.” Arthur opens his mouth to explain, but he doesn’t know what to say, has no idea where to even start untangling his own mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game Night

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the kinkmeme and posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/34781.html#cutid1). (13 October 2009)

It’s a chilly night, crisp in the way only late October can be, the faint sweet scent of dying leaves and fallen apples carried in the breeze from old man Wilson’s orchard next door. Arthur stands on the edge of the field, just past the twenty yard line, his hands shoved deep into the pocket of his sweatshirt, pensive, ignoring the niggling thought that he should have been gone an hour ago with everyone else, that his father will be waiting up for him at home. The bright lights are off, the fans gone, and he can’t bring himself to give up the quiet just yet; he waits.

“Don’t you have celebration parties to go to? Illegal alcohol to imbibe?”

He jerks around, surprised despite himself, and sees a familiar lanky figure stretched out on the bottom row of the stands, his feet propped up on the railing in front of him. Merlin.

“You know I don’t drink during the season,” he says. His head has gone light, funny; spinning round and round with too many thoughts, emotions: uneasy shock cut with anticipation, want. It makes him feel sick. “Too risky,” he adds, because he can’t think of anything else to say. And it is risky, though he knows most of the other Knights do it anyway; he can’t afford to be caught, suspended, can’t afford to lose the chance he has at a scholarship or his father’s trust.

Merlin shrugs one shoulder. He’s still in his uniform, glossy bright red trousers and white shirt; he picks at a loose thread on the giant scarlet _C_ emblazoned across his chest. Arthur watches him, caught by the way the lights of the parking lot turn Merlin’s long pale fingers a dusky orange. “Thought it wouldn’t matter tonight,” Merlin remarks. “’S a big game, Knights and Griffins.”

Arthur snorts. “I guess,” he allows. “We weren’t good enough to merit a real celebration today. Barely survived the first half. Mercia’s good this year.”

There’s a silence between them, hanging heavy like the frost the weatherman warned of on the morning news. 

Merlin bites his lip and picks at another thread before he takes another look at Arthur and apparently decides on something. He swings his legs down and stands up, vaults smoothly over the railing to land squarely on his feet. “What,” Arthur says, joking through the new knot in his stomach, “no flips from the wizard?” That’s what they call Merlin now, _the Wizard_ , the barbed, crude jokes about male cheerleaders gone after the first time he stunned them all with acrobatics in the halftime routine. Arthur might have had a hand in it as well, might have demonstrated to his team in excruciating clarity what might befall anyone who gave Merlin a hard time, but mostly he tries to forget that fight never happened, that the bruises really were from falling down.

The comment earns Arthur a dirty look. “The wizard is done with tricks for the night,” Merlin tells him as he walks over, stopping a careful distance away from where Arthur hasn’t moved. He crosses his arms. “Unless,” he adds, too-casual, the lightness in his voice at odds with the way his fingers are pressing into his arms, “you want to go back on the bet?”

Arthur swallows against a new wave of dizziness, unable to ignore the way his nerves are buzzing, trying to crawl directly out of his skin. “Dunno,” he says, fighting the words out through the repeating sound of _shit shit shit_ inside his head. “Hadn’t thought that far ahead; thought maybe you’d get cold feet.”

Merlin takes a step closer – just one. “I never back out of a bet,” he says, throwing the words at Arthur like a challenge, daring him.

Merlin knows Arthur’s never been able to resist a challenge, has always had a hard time holding back when Merlin baits him like this, and Arthur knows it’s impossible to stop himself now, when something inside him has snapped, is flapping free; whatever this is, whatever has been growing and mutating between them for months is suddenly too much. He curls his hand into Merlin’s collar, yanks him close until their chests are touching, pressing against each other, and Merlin sucks in a breath, his eyes going wide. Arthur doesn’t wait, just goes for it blindly; it was a stupid bet anyway and he doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to ask himself why he went along with the idea to begin with.

He ends up sort of smashing their faces together, their noses in the way and their teeth clacking painfully. He accidentally bites his own tongue. Merlin wrenches himself away, sputtering and angry.

“Jesus, Arthur,” he spits out, wiping his mouth. “If kissing me is that horrible, you could have had something else as your victory prize.” Arthur opens his mouth to explain, but he doesn’t know what to say, has no idea where to even start untangling his own mind. 

Something must show on his face, though, because Merlin hesitates, softens and steps back in, reaching up to slide his fingers around the back of Arthur’s neck.

“Slowly,” he instructs, and leans down – Arthur always forgets that Merlin’s taller, and the reminder makes him catch his breath – to brush his lips gently across Arthur’s own. Arthur stands still, frozen as Merlin presses small kisses to the corners of Arthur’s mouth, his chin, the patch of skin just below his ears. He shivers, and brings his hands up to rest them hesitantly on Merlin’s waist. He’s pretty sure he’s blushing and he feels like a complete moron for it, but he can’t really react – it’s like he’s stuck in cold molasses, frozen by the soft press of Merlin’s mouth against his skin.

Merlin makes an encouraging sound, brushes his thumb along Arthur’s jaw, and when Arthur drags in an uneven breath Merlin’s mouth is back on his, sucking at his lower lip. Merlin’s mouth is slick, hot against Arthur’s cold skin, and Arthur can move again, can’t help but kiss back, wanting more of that heat. He can tell Merlin is being careful, not pushing too hard, but Arthur is done with that, he’s committed to this now, the molasses receding from his muscles, and he runs his tongue along Merlin’s top lip. Merlin’s hand tightens, twisted in Arthur’s short hair, and he pulls back – again, what the fuck? Arthur thinks, irritated, not ready to stop or talk or whatever Merlin wants to do that doesn’t involve Merlin’s lips against his own.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, looking dazed and God, Arthur really, really needs to kiss him again, needs to shut him up. “Wait,” Merlin protests, stopping him with a hand against his mouth, and tells him, “Not here,” when Arthur glares at him. “This way.” He grabs Arthur’s wrist with a sweaty hand and pulls him under the bleachers, ducking beneath the low bleachers, making his way to the back.

It doesn’t take long, but still by the time they reach a place where they can stand without hunching over they’ve regained whatever barriers the kiss had removed from the space between them. Arthur scuffs the toe of his sneaker in the packed dirt, and the rough scrape of it is too loud in the thick, embarrassed silence.

Merlin drops Arthur’s wrist and half-turns his face toward Arthur, not quite meeting Arthur’s eyes.

“Well,” he says with false brightness, wary. “Never thought _I’d_ be the cheerleader who got the football captain under the bleachers.” He grins, and Arthur rolls his eyes and groans, because Merlin has always had an awful sense of humor but it’s done the trick this time, broken through the heavy air between them.

“Do not depend on a future in comedy,” he informs Merlin, stepping in so he can feel Merlin’s chest against his again, firm against his own, and from there it’s easy, so easy to take hold of Merlin’s chin, guide their mouths together.

He goes slowly this time, savoring the feel of Merlin’s lips against his, rough where they’re chapped. Merlin tastes like stale cigarette smoke, which annoys Arthur – he’s been after Merlin to stop smoking for weeks now, mostly just to see the faces Merlin makes when he discovers Arthur’s hidden his cigarettes again – but not enough to stop. It’s addictive, the way they’re tangled together at the mouth, Merlin pushing back against him and sliding his hands under Arthur’s sweatshirt, giving as good as he gets; he licks inside Arthur’s mouth, sucks on his tongue until Arthur’s entire focus is narrowed to fit him, centered around that wet heat, and all Arthur can think is _more_.

The kiss gets sloppy, aggressive as Arthur concentrates on memorizing the feel of Merlin’s skin under his fingers, the sounds he makes when Arthur drops his hands to squeeze his ass. Merlin steps closer, wedging his thigh between Arthur’s legs and grinding forward, and when Arthur groans into his mouth he swallows the sound.

Arthur leans into Merlin, pushing down as much as he dares, needing to feel Merlin under him, pressed up long and lean beneath his body. Merlin huffs in annoyance and _shoves_ , and even though Arthur is bigger, heavy with muscle from doing miles of lunges and hours of weights, Merlin’s stronger than he looks; Arthur ends up stumbling back against a metal support with Merlin’s thin hands trapping his wrists behind him.

Arthur tugs against Merlin’s grip, a hot thrill running down his spine when Merlin keeps him trapped easily. He can feel Merlin’s erection pressing into his thigh, and he kisses Merlin again, messy, trying to worm his hands out of Merlin’s grip so he can _do something_ because Merlin has still not clued into the fact that they’re wearing way too many clothes.

Merlin gets the message pretty quickly when Arthur opts for brute strength and just goes for Merlin’s shirt, not caring that Merlin’s fingers are still clamped hot against the pulse in his wrists, ignoring the jangling senses that tell him any stragglers looking for lost cell phones or jackets will see them instantly. The shirt is tight and gets tangled around Merlin’s head (“Ears,” Arthur snickers, and Merlin bites him in retaliation when he finally gets free, and _shit_ , Arthur thinks, tilting his head so Merlin can get a better angle, biting should not be that hot); Arthur takes the opportunity while Merlin is fighting with it to run his fingers along Merlin’s ribs, learn the curve of his spine and the way his muscles shift beneath his skin, twitching under Arthur’s touch.

And oh, this is much better, this is fucking _awesome_ , Merlin’s chest lean and hard pressed against him, his nipples hardening in the cool air and rubbing against Arthur, but it’s still not enough. Merlin sneaks a hand up underneath Arthur’s shirt to scratch his fingernails lightly down Arthur’s chest and Arthur shifts, spreading his legs until Merlin is cradled between them, their erections rubbing against each other through their clothes. Arthur’s hips stutter forward, and he chokes back a gasp at the sensation; fuck, he needs to get the rest of their clothes off _right now_...

Merlin’s ahead of him, already working at the zip of Arthur’s jeans, yanking hard when he finally gets them undone. They get stuck somewhere around Arthur’s knees, his boxers tangled with them and the night breeze blowing cold against his bare skin, but he’s too busy pulling at the slippery material of Merlin’s uniform to care, unable to think much beyond _Jesus, finally_. The trousers slip easily off of Merlin’s hips, and Arthur bites his tongue hard to avoid making any embarrassing sounds at the discovery that Merlin is wearing nothing underneath them.

He gets distracted from Merlin’s uniform by the smooth curve of Merlin’s ass under his fingers, focuses on feeling the flex of Merlin’s muscles before Merlin pulls away and toes off his shoes along with the trousers; and finally, _finally_ he’s standing in front of Arthur entirely naked. He’s staring at Arthur like he’s been starving for weeks and Arthur is a particularly juicy t-bone with maybe some fries and a slice of cake on the side; it makes something uncomfortably hot flare up deep inside Arthur’s gut, trapped somewhere between his hips and where the metal strut digs into his back.

When Merlin presses forward again and reaches a hand down to wrap his fingers around Arthur’s cock, Arthur chokes on his tongue and nearly gives himself whiplash from throwing his head back, all thoughts of steak and struts driven completely from his mind by the maddening, glorious friction.

“What’s it gonna be?” Merlin whispers, his breath a tease against Arthur’s ear. “Your win, your call,” and maybe he thinks Arthur is too far gone to hear the desperate hitch in his voice, the way his voice cracks just a little bit, but Arthur _does_ , and his heart gives a feeble lurch in the direction of his throat.

Arthur has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from coming too-soon over Merlin’s hand at the thought of what he wants, the desires he thought he’d tucked away in a shameful back corner of his mind for good: Merlin’s hand on his cock, those long, beautiful fingers stroking across the head, curling down to cup his balls; Merlin’s mouth, red and swollen, stretched around Arthur’s prick as he swallows him down deeper, deeper into the slick heat until Arthur comes down his throat with a strangled yell; Merlin writhing under him, cheek pressed into the cold dirt and one hand scrabbling back to clutch at Arthur’s hip hard enough to bruise as Arthur fucks him, thrusting into tight heat over and over until he thinks he’ll explode from the perfect ecstasy of it all; Merlin coming apart completely beneath him, shaking and moaning, his fingers knotted in Arthur’s hair hard enough to hurt.

“Fucking hell,” Arthur says, and pulls Merlin in for a filthy, sloppy kiss, too turned on to care about fucking _finesse_ or whether or not Merlin will think he’s an irredeemably terrible kisser. In truth Arthur is an excellent kisser; he has a reputation for a one hundred percent success rate at turning the knees of everyone he kisses into jelly, maneuvering them expertly into a blindly blissful state before he moves on with a brilliant smile, leaving them quivering behind him without a second thought. 

Merlin’s different, a more dangerous gamble. Merlin _bites_ him, destroys his concentration and his control until Arthur’s the one who can barely keep his feet under him.

And just like that, Arthur knows exactly what he wants as his prize. He sinks to his knees and curls his hands around Merlin’s skinny calves, ignoring Merlin’s confused, “What the hell, Arthur?”

Merlin’s dick is long and curves slightly to the left and shit, Arthur really doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing. He touches it tentatively with the tips of his fingers, testing for Merlin’s reaction, and Merlin hisses a breath out through his teeth.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Merlin demands, pushing at Arthur’s shoulders, trying to make him back off, and Arthur spares him an irritated glance.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he says, hoping he sounds confident instead of absolutely fucking terrified, because he _is_ confident, he’s Arthur Pendragon, goddammit, and if he wants to suck his best friend’s brains out through his cock he’s going to fucking _do it_.

Merlin just looks more confused, which makes his face go sort of squishy around the edges, and really, Arthur can’t see how Merlin’s not beating off all the girls in school with a stick. Then again, he thinks, looking back at Merlin’s cock as it twitches in his hand, maybe this has something to do with it.

“But you won the bet,” Merlin points out, and for Chrissakes, Arthur is officially done with this conversation.

“Merlin,” he says, and takes a moment to admire his own patience before he goes on, “do you or do you not want me to suck your dick?”

Merlin’s fingers tighten convulsively on his shoulder; Arthur thinks he’ll probably have bruises in the morning spelling out the shape of Merlin’s hand. “Really?” Merlin asks, breathless, his eyes dark and huge in his face, and Arthur will take the way his hips twitch toward Arthur’s face as a _yes please, Arthur, now_.

He’s no virgin, but despite his carefully tended reputation Arthur’s had exactly one blowjob, and then he was on the receiving end and it was an entirely shit night which ended with a nearly-broken nose and a long lonely walk back to his house from the movie theater parking lot, kicking moodily at nothing and avoiding particularly bright streetlights, so he doesn’t think it really counts. But this time, this time he’s not curled uncomfortably into the too-small back seat of an ancient Toyota, there’s a much smaller chance that Merlin has an ex-boyfriend who might wander by and see them, and all in all, Arthur thinks, it’s a much more auspicious situation.

Then he thinks maybe he’s using words like _auspicious_ to avoid thinking about the way Merlin’s dick is still bobbing in front of his face, which is stupid because Merlin’s cock is sort of fascinating, actually, and Arthur leans forward and licks it to see what Merlin will do.

Merlin gasps and for a second Arthur thinks he’s actually going to pass out or something, the stupid prick, but no, Merlin’s just leaning forward to brace his free hand against the metal support behind Arthur. Arthur licks his cock again, dragging the flat of his tongue across the head, and runs his hands up Merlin’s legs to his hipbones, which have apparently been designed specifically for Arthur to hold onto so he can sink his fingers into Merlin’s skin, leave bruises to mark his place.

He keeps lapping at Merlin’s cock, working his way down to the root and taking a minute to acquaint himself with Merlin’s balls, running his tongue over them to see what they taste like before pulling back again to take another look. Merlin’s letting out little bitten-off gasps of breath, like he’s trying to keep from making too much noise, and Arthur allows himself a smug nip at the inside of Merlin’s thigh.

“Jesus Christ,” Merlin grinds out, “I swear, if you’re not going to actually do anything down there, you fucking tease, I am going to punch you in the face.”

Arthur wants to say something witty and biting but he can’t quite remember how to form words; instead he mans up and takes Merlin’s cock into his mouth, remembering just in time to be careful with his teeth because fuck, that was one of the worst parts of the disastrous Toyota experience.

He forgets about his teeth anyway when he’s too enthusiastic, takes Merlin in too deep and gags, but he gets the hang of it pretty quickly – he’s always been a fast learner, especially when his reward is Merlin shaking above him, biting his lip hard and letting out these little whimpering noises that make Arthur harder than he’s ever been before. Merlin keeps trying to say something; the words get choked off halfway through but mostly they sound like _Arthur, Arthur_ , a mantra which Arthur thoroughly approves of and rewards by taking Merlin a little bit deeper, sliding one hand around to cup one of Merlin’s gorgeous cheeks.

Merlin is trembling now, his fingers a vise around Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur would be worried about getting a fracture or something except that he thinks he’ll probably die of arousal before his broken collarbone punctures his lung because he’s so hard it’s actually physically painful. He’s aware on some level that as a red-blooded MVP he should be disgusted by this, by the musky salt taste of Merlin’s skin, by the way his chin is wet and shiny from spit, but instead he’s too busy finding new ways to make Merlin lose control, cursing the fact that there’s nothing for him to rub himself off against.

“Arthur,” Merlin gasps, his voice ragged and absolutely wrecked, and that’s all the warning Arthur gets before Merlin comes. He jerks away and spits as fast as he can, letting Merlin ride out his orgasm without his help because fuck, that’s terrible; no wonder girls don’t swallow.

He looks up hopefully after, his erection standing proud as ever, but Merlin is propped up on the metal support, utterly useless as always, so he takes matters into his own hands, giving a quiet groan of relief as he moves his hand over his own dick in quick, efficient strokes.

The feeling of a hand in his hair startles him, but he doesn’t stop – he’s close, so close; he can feel orgasm at the corners of his consciousness, creeping in on him – and when Merlin orders: “Come for me, Arthur,” in a croaky whisper, he does.

When it’s over he slumps sideways and straightens his legs out in front of him, wincing at the burn in his knees and the ache in his jaw, and Merlin drops down beside him, dragging his shirt over to sit on. Arthur glances at him nervously, not sure what’s supposed to come next, but Merlin just props his head on Arthur’s shoulder and leans against him, a solid weight anchoring him.

“I hope I win next time,” Merlin says, contented. “I have _plans_.” Arthur laughs, and sternly reminds himself he will never, ever allow himself to fix a game.

And if at the next practice he wonders how he might fumble a pass to Lancelot without making it look deliberate, well, that’s just practicing, preparing for all possibilities.


End file.
